


Choice

by Alethia



Series: Passion Play [1]
Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: First Time, Lancelot Pushes, M/M, POV Arthur, Pining, arthur thinks too much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-11-29
Updated: 2004-11-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 02:07:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alethia/pseuds/Alethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Others take what they shouldn’t and you refuse to take what you should.” Significant look sent his way and Arthur stilled, watching the way Lancelot’s eyes flicked over his face before smirking bitterness into his drink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Choice

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://alethialia.livejournal.com/107492.html).

“That one.”

Lancelot scoffed.

“Fine. That one.”

Rolled his eyes.

“That one.”

Laughed out loud. And didn’t stop.

Arthur sighed. He didn’t know why he put up with this irritating sot. If he had any sense in him he’d stay far away. Not that he could, the lure of Lancelot overwhelming all of his good intentions. For all his control—well, so much of what Arthur knew was useless when it came to this man.

Like a fire in the woods, attracting all sorts of deadly attention. Not that the bitter, blood-tang of that ever stopped Lancelot. Urged him on, even.

He finally quit laughing and looked at Arthur with a devilish grin. “Now I know why you’re so assured when it comes to your women. Choosing all the ugly ones must be a boon for your fragile confidence.”

“They are not—I do not need—I am not fragile.” Arthur indignantly settled on the last, sure of that answer at least. Not that it helped. Cheeky brat kept right on laughing, looking around as if eyeing so much prey. Quieted, grin such a sharp promise, only to melt away, presence but a memory. His eyes settled on a pretty young thing, the focus of many of the knights’ attentions.

“Now _that_ one I would understand.”

Arthur followed his line of sight, judging the girl to be maybe seventeen, only a few years Lancelot’s junior, and full of the delicate youth which would so quickly desert her in this harsh land.

“And you pick the most favored. So which of us really has the point to prove?” Arthur sipped his wine, getting better at only wincing slightly. Yes, man of the people, that was he.

Lancelot snorted inelegantly. “That would be you, chasing after all the homely women better suited to washing your shirts than warming your bed.”

Perhaps it was the drink, perhaps the late hour. He didn’t know what made him ignore the slight and answer as if honestly asked: “It’s their eyes. They hold—something. Something unique to this land. Something admirable.”

The silence to his side became more pronounced than even Lancelot’s most boisterous laughs and Arthur looked over to his friend, finding him ignoring the subject of their conversation in favor of staring down into his drink.

“Is the wine imparting heavenly insights this night, Lancelot?” he asked lightly and with a glimmer of a smile. Lancelot still had the dramatics of a boy, not nearly so bad as Galahad, but Arthur had had to stop more than one of Lancelot’s melodramatic huffs over some nonsense or other. At this point, he was just hoping they all grew out of it.

He was beginning to think that was a vain hope, at least when his thoughts strayed to the man beside him.

The smothered light in the tavern shed a false illumination, made Lancelot’s face take on that youth which had already fled, brining Arthur back just a few years, back to fresh-faced boys yet unscarred by the trials of war. But Lancelot shifted almost imperceptibly and the effect was gone.

Left him with—this. This man he did not yet seem to wholly understand, this man who would slip away from him, into a dark haven where Arthur could not follow. It was so—different than before. Before when the most important concern of a boy was that he cease tripping over his own feet, cast off the relentless teasing.

“I don’t believe in your heaven, remember? I prefer my pleasure in much more—immediate forms.” Eyeing the girl again with some sort of detached desire, but nothing—tangible. He’d often seen this look in Lancelot’s eyes, like he was wanting what he should…with little of that passionate force behind it.

“Original, that,” he bantered back, almost unconsciously. He leaned back in his seat, surveying the rest of the room, ignoring the swift looks away whenever anyone caught his eye. Unusual for a commander to come and drink with the men, he knew. That elitism heated his temples and it was an effort not to grind his teeth. He wouldn’t be held to other men’s standards. They’d get used to it.

He’d been telling himself that for years.

“This coming from the Roman? Please. Your people would prefer jagged-edged uniformity over anything, even a tumble with a dozen beautiful women. It’s unnatural, your obsession with straight lines.” A grin alighted on his face once again, along with a sly look that was all about innuendo. 

“Don’t even say it,” Arthur cut in, before Lancelot could go where so many had. “I’ve heard them all before.”

Lancelot stuck out his bottom lip in an impressive pout, petulant twelve-year-old and engaging man of nineteen blending together right before Arthur. The effect was—off-putting. “Not fair. Everyone else gets to poke fun at the direction Roman eyes sway, why not me?”

“Because you’ve no foundation for—that.” Arthur waved his hand in what seemed a truly elegant manner and hoped his face showed nothing unusual. Lancelot always was too damn good at reading him. “And beyond that I don’t want to have to douse you with this wine tonight.”

Lancelot leered and leaned in close—ragged exhaustion bleeding into daring abandon—right up into Arthur, bumping deliberately at his cheek when Arthur turned his head. “No foundation, do I?” he said, low and shivering its way across Arthur’s jaw.

Arthur sighed—obviously—and ignored that itch that ordered him to make this into some sort of contest. That was _exactly_ what he did not need tonight. And Lancelot was trying to prove a point, was always trying to prove a point, but Arthur didn’t intend to participate in any way. Lancelot got too riled when he did, stalked around like it was an affront Arthur didn’t immediately agree with him. And yet he kept coming back, always _seeking_ something, though Arthur did not know what.

Arthur stifled a sigh that would betray too much of that ache, the jagged wound that was forever reopened, thoughtless and oh-so overwhelming.

The shuddering of the table jerked Lancelot away, swift retreat breezing across Arthur’s neck, skimming his lips. Lancelot’s muscles were fight-tense until he saw it was only Bors, leaning drunkenly against the scarred wood—battle of a different sort.

“Does Arthur smell?” he asked, face mock-serious.

“Have you been drinking that boiled shit they call mead around here? Because you’re daft.” Lancelot asked, looking to work himself into one of those huffs. 

Hmm. Arthur might need to sacrifice his wine tonight after all.

“Seeing as you’re smelling the man, I wondered if he was offending your delicate senses.” For all that Bors was more comfortable in his skin, he could still sneer like Galahad in a bitch of a squabble.

Lancelot ground his jaw down and leaned back, facing Bors more fully. “Not like you do, you shit-crusted prick. Besides, Romans don’t smell. These prisses would bathe every hour if they could.”

Bors’ eyes narrowed, the effect less intimidating than just pathetic. It didn’t look like they’d be throwing chairs at each other yet, so Arthur just sat back to watch the inevitable.

“Maybe you should follow his example. Then you could keep a slip of a girl instead of poaching other people’s.” Ahh, and there came the real problem. Arthur only allowed the corners of his mouth to curve in amusement. It was a rare event that Lancelot was called on his wandering eye; most men were well-aware of Lancelot’s skills with his blades. Arthur was fully prepared to enjoy every minute of this.

Lancelot seemed amused as well, smirking like he _practiced_ how to enrage people with the slightest effort. But that would be too much work. Lancelot thrived on his innate talents. Like getting into trouble.

“It must be such a burden, knowing other men satisfy her. Better, even.” Lancelot leaned around Bors to sight Vanora and winked obviously, fully for Bors’ sake, of course.

“I don’t see you charming anyone tonight,” Bors muttered, leaning closer. “What’s the matter, can’t rise to the occasion,” he sneered, insult landing oil-thick, helped along with the ripe scent that assaulted even Arthur’s nose.

Lancelot just laughed it off, unusual tactic, but probably as infuriating as he wanted to be tonight. “You’re just lucky I’ve had her too often otherwise I would be. But I do like diversity.”

Arthur shook his head as Bors glared again, pair of elegant hands appearing round his middle, holding him softly—sometimes all the more effective, Arthur well-knew—enticed away by the subject of their conversation before he could do anything rash. 

Arthur looked at Lancelot, disapproving. “One of these days you’ll push him too far.”

“Not _this_ day,” Lancelot answered pointedly. And went back to his wine.

“Bors’ point is not totally without merit. The quickest way to make the others…resentful is to pursue their women.”

“And since my goal is to spread peace and strew flowers throughout the land, I’ll take your advice under consideration.”

Arthur couldn’t help the smile that wrung from him. There were moments, but moments of course, when he did enjoy Lancelot. Sometimes too much and at those times, well, he retreated and Lancelot resented it, though seemed not to know Arthur’s reason. A blessing, he often thought. Yet still—push and pull, never-ending. 

But Arthur refused to allow himself to slip away if he could prevent it. Lancelot could sometimes be a distraction. At other times, well, Arthur chose not to think of those. “You just don’t want to give up the sex.”

The other man shrugged and smirked knowingly. “There is that.”

“Lancelot, the Pure,” Arthur remarked, dramatic as the other man could be.

Lancelot choked on his wine and snickered at Arthur through watery, delighted eyes. “I shall be remembered for far more important things than that.” Said lightly but _meant_ , that confident knowledge that made Lancelot one of the best. If not the best.

Arthur nodded, carefully setting down his mug. “Yes. Yes, you will.” Sharp look from Lancelot, eyes glittering, so reminding him of the heat of Rome, heavy summers amongst the light of the world.

“I wonder, Arthur, why it is that you can’t make up your blasted mind.”

He raised an eyebrow, knew he appeared imperious and didn’t care. “Make up my mind?”

“You push me away,” Lancelot easily gestured to the women scattered about the tavern, the subject of Lancelot’s derision earlier. “And then you pull me back.” He cocked his head, eyes calculating, measuring, offering something too overwhelming to contemplate.

“I don’t do that.” And it would be very, very bad if Lancelot suddenly developed the ability to look in on Arthur’s thoughts. Because _that_ mirrored his earlier musings too closely for comfort.

“You do. And I’m starting to think it’s less that you’re playing with me and more that you spend too much time in that pretty, but distracting head of yours.”

Arthur was aware of his pause, unusual that, and he stopped to really _look_ at Lancelot. Could it be that Lancelot had not been playing? Had not been trying to prove an old and tired point, a point that had become so commonplace Arthur wondered why it was even contentious?

The want in his eyes said yes, the white of his knuckles said more.

Arthur looked away. “So we should all just not think? That’s your solution.”

If Lancelot held the mug any tighter he’d break it. Arthur spared a brief thought of concern over Vanora’s reaction, but that didn’t last. “I think you should let others think, even when you disagree.”

His head turned so fast his muscles seized, but he was speaking before it had a chance to hamper him. “Have we reached the point in the evening where you insult me? Because from where I sit I’ve been much more tolerant than some commanders.”

Lancelot smiled bitterly. “In some areas that’s very true. In others…well, you are used to having your way.”

And Arthur was—he didn’t know what he was. It was an affront, and one that struck deep. He’d seen what hate people could hurl at one another over such pettiness, spreading like fire in the night, and he’d made sure it didn’t happen under him.

“I can’t imagine what you’re talking about,” he said stiffly, turning to face Lancelot straight and pinning him there. If this was a wound that had been festering—he wanted it over, fire quick and sharp and cleansing.

“I suppose it comes with the mantle of Leader. You like to choose for others.”

“Like?”

“Me.” Said as if it were obvious, as if Arthur were daft for not thinking of it himself.

“Choose what?”

“Others take what they shouldn’t and you refuse to take what you should.” Significant look sent his way and Arthur stilled, watching the way Lancelot’s eyes flicked over his face before smirking bitterness into his drink.

There had been—touches, tokens of affection, he thought, looks, more than a few…but never any word. And with the way even a rumor traveled here, Arthur would have heard. Everyone would have.

“You never—”

“You sure?”

He wasn’t. Every day there were fewer things of which he could be sure. He’d counted Lancelot as one of them.

Lancelot smirked again and shook his head, some kind of—pain nearly a palpable thing in his eyes, the way he held himself under Arthur’s scrutiny. “How that gossip would have been contained is, well, not with this lot anyway. But I never was fond of placeholders. And which of these whoreson jackals would have compared anyway?”

He knocked back more of his drink, flinging a scouring look his way when Arthur took it from his unsteady hands, setting it down with more care than the act deserved.

Arthur felt eyes studying him as he studied the mug, wondered what Lancelot saw. His mind was—elsewhere, cataloguing everything, incorporating new information. He was aware of the thrum of shards fusing together, springing to a living shape, vibrant and _hot_ and running through him, clearing out the old and molding his vision.

“I’ll leave you to your brooding, then. Wouldn’t want to disrupt our fearless leader’s peace any more.” Lancelot’s absence more than his presence jolted Arthur, pulling him irresistibly after the other man. He was all hunched shoulders and tangled curls flapping in the wind—Lancelot needed to cut his hair.

Arthur was content to follow, watch his gait, smooth now, even in the dark, though the path may have been known well enough. Followed his steps, turning it over in his mind, looking at different angles. Lancelot accused him of choosing for others; choosing blindness was probably a better description. What one can’t see can’t hurt. 

And yet. Arthur never had been one to avoid things. It was a characteristic of a bad leader. And, if nothing else, Arthur knew he wasn’t that.

He stopped before he fully collided with Lancelot, but it was a near thing. He met Lancelot’s eyes, chagrined, and smiled wanly.

Lancelot shook his head, but even he couldn’t keep the warmth from peeking out, around corners and through cracks.

“Your tracking skills could use some work.”

“I’ll remember to inform Tristan. He’ll be delighted.”

Lancelot snorted again, thawing out with every passing moment. “Tristan doesn’t _do_ delighted.”

“I’m sure he’ll be very sorry to hear you said that.”

“He doesn’t do sorry, either,” Lancelot said, dryness creeping over into exasperation and Arthur couldn’t help but smile stupidly at that. But it was Lancelot and he was—at Arthur’s rooms.

“Why are we at my rooms?” he asked, continuing that stupidity theme. Well, at least Lancelot couldn’t put him on a pedestal now.

“You were following me.”

At Arthur’s blank look he continued, innocence come down from heaven to put them all to shame: “I thought you might be lost.”

Arthur laughed, then, full and hard, so hard it hurt, and it possibly wasn’t that funny. Except all of this so very much was.

“Arthur?”

He caught his breath, mirth still curling through him, dull heat that felt good, felt old and familiar and _wanted_. “Lost? In my own garrison?”

“Well, it’s not really yours, is it? No, no, all for Mother Rome. No reason deluding ourselves now.”

“Lancelot.”

“Unless you do have higher aspirations. I have heard stories, you know. Some prattling idiot called Maximus. I suppose if you were—”

Arthur leaned in close, pushing Lancelot easily into his door, flow of words suddenly stopped, short breaths singing in the air around him. Now Lancelot was filling up empty space—when _he’d_ raised the subject to begin with—and it was just on the edge of getting trying.

“Intolerant. Indecisive. Addled. Deluded. I get such great respect from you. I can’t imagine how the walls aren’t falling down.” Arthur ran careful fingers down Lancelot’s cheek, drawing attention, a shaky exhale that settled like a weight between them.

Lancelot patted the building he leaned against, distracting play of hands and smile. “Well, you Romans are pretty good at building things. Even if you do have to enslave half the world to get anything done.”

Arthur felt a brief flare at the last, but Lancelot saw, and stepped forward, pressing back and sinking that heat into him like Arthur only dimly remembered, a city made flesh against him and just as alluring. 

“And I never called you addled.” He shifted, nose pressing against Arthur’s jaw, lips brushing air down his neck.

“I was,” his breath hitched, and again when a clever tongue traced its way down. “Summarizing.”

“Summarizing?” Soft bite to his neck, harder, and somehow his hands were in dark curls, pulling Lancelot closer, pressing him back against the door at the same time, just feeling his body against Arthur’s own.

“It’s more efficient,” he rumbled, already tugging at stubbornly-clinging clothes.

Lancelot laughed, somewhat wildly, and pulled back, fingers tracing over and around his shoulders. “Efficient? You’re all mad, you know that? It’s one thing with bridges, but if you need to take it—”

Arthur pitched forward fast, colliding with a still moving mouth and stilled it. He flicked his tongue out, tentative taste, and Lancelot groaned underneath him, sound rattling through his hands. He turned and suddenly the angle was just perfect, Arthur’s tongue sinking into fiery heat and knocking Lancelot back, held up by the door and Arthur’s weight alone.

Arthur pulled away, panting, watching as Lancelot licked his lips and opened glazed eyes.

“You’ll be happy for it sooner rather than later,” he said, grabbing at Lancelot’s tunic and hauling him forward.

“Arthur—what?” he asked, his turn to be stupid, hands sinking into Arthur’s clothes and twisting, trying to bring Arthur’s mouth back to his. Lancelot’s whole body twined about his in a way that was most problematic when attempting anything approaching movement.

“Lancelot—” he protested, helpless with tricky hands stealing his thoughts away, that mouth nibbling at his jaw.

“Arthur,” he purred, rubbing against him and snaking a hand to the front of his trousers, Arthur’s vision gone hot and stinging.

With that Arthur picked the damn unhelpful bastard up and moved them both, finally getting a hand out to fling open the door and push Lancelot into it, distant sound of slamming behind him.

“So that’s what you were on about,” Lancelot said smugly, looping arms around Arthur’s shoulders and rubbing against him in earnest now, obvious pleasure stoking Arthur’s own. 

“Unless you _wanted_ to be a spectacle.”

Shrug of shoulders implied his lack of care about the matter, the issue dropping when Lancelot thrust against him again, impossibly harder, and Arthur nearly lost his footing. He grabbed Lancelot’s hips and hurried them both back, a gangly, unwieldy monster ravaging Arthur’s belongings.

Well. He wasn’t particularly fond of that lamp, anyway.

Making it to the bed was a minor miracle and Arthur idly wondered if it could count towards his beatification…and then Lancelot’s tongue begged entrance to his mouth and he dismissed that in favor of dueling. Of a sort.

Lancelot’s mouth finally distracted Arthur pulled, and pulled again, finally shifting enough to get Lancelot’s tunic up and off, despite the impediment Lancelot’s wandering hands presented.

Arthur ran thoughtful fingers down smooth skin and over exposed ribs: “You should eat more.”

Lancelot paused, fingers stilling on Arthur’s clothes, incredulous puff of air expelled between them. He recovered quickly, tugging more frantically than before. “This is what you think about? No wonder your bed is as dead as our pathetic cemetery.”

Arthur rolled him over, stripping off his own tunic and tossing it aside. “At least I don’t go slutting it around town like some.” He leaned down and bit at Lancelot’s chest, watching for a reaction.

Lancelot tossed his head, too casually-practiced to fool Arthur. “I didn’t think you’d noticed.”

Arthur pulled up a bit, looking at him solemnly. “I notice more than you think.”

Rather than saying anything, Lancelot tangled his hand in Arthur’s hair and pulled, fusing mouths together in a melding that said more than mere words anyway.

At that it was more furious pulling at clothes, boots, Lancelot helping now that he had the right incentive. 

They ended up right where Arthur intended: him pushing between Lancelot’s legs, the other man trying to grind his way to some sort of satisfaction, too eager by half.

“Would you calm down?” Arthur grumbled, pulling away from the other man’s mouth and holding Lancelot’s hips down.

Lancelot made an incoherent noise that might have been protest before he shook himself and glared. “Would you hurry up? And you were talking about efficiency. I’ll be old and gray before you get anything done here.”

Arthur held up the jar he’d been thoughtful enough to keep with him in his travels, and smirked. “You will be sorry you said that.”

Arthur might have heard an ‘I don’t do sorry, either,’ but it was drowned out by the sound of his finger sinking into Lancelot, a desperate groan torn from Lancelot’s throat. He slowed, gentling, and Lancelot shifted his legs around Arthur, pulled himself onto the finger, baring his teeth.

“Don’t equivocate on my account,” he said, breath hissing between gritted teeth, fists clenched in pleasure-pain that Lancelot only encouraged with the sounds falling from his lips.

Arthur nodded and used more of the oil and soon Lancelot’s cries became less pained and more strangled, less discomfort and more impatience.

“Enough, gods help me, if you don’t get fucking on with it in the next _moment_ —”

Arthur pulled his fingers back and smirked at the gasp, slicking himself and pressing in, fascinated by the way Lancelot’s neck arched, mouth opened, giving Arthur all the access he needed to lick at Lancelot’s lips until the man had calmed enough to respond.

At which point legs wrapped tight around him and pulled, sinking Arthur even further into blissful, spine-arching heat, surprising a groan from him.

“One of these days—one of these days I’ll have to teach you patience,” he panted out, squeezing his eyes shut and concentrating, not losing himself to oblivion just yet.

“Don’t be too hopeful; I’m a lost cause, I assure you.” With that he released the grip of his legs and let Arthur pull back, asserting force again when he wanted more. Arthur rolled his eyes and set up a lazy rhythm, meant to distract and fail to fully satisfy, let him get some semblance of control back.

Not that it seemed likely. This felt too good; the burn of tight heat raced along his skin and reached something deep inside, gripping tight. Tighter still when Lancelot choked out his name, scrabbled at his shoulders heedless of injury, trying to get more, faster, harder, betraying a wondrous look he tried to hide but couldn’t quite.

Arthur leaned in to kiss Lancelot again, tracing teeth with his tongue, mingling their breaths, and only when Lancelot breathed “Arthur”—soft this time, and weighty—did he speed up, shift position enough to make Lancelot’s eyes roll back, legs no longer able to do anything but keep his hold. Barely.

Yet he did seem have some strength left, legs gone tight around him, muscles clenched, and the world went sparkling over and through him, rush of _something_ in his ears and a bone-deep pleasure cresting.

It drowned everything out, Arthur losing that tight grip on his control for a bit, before slamming back down on an exhale. Then he was back in Lancelot’s now slack hold, focusing on breathing and nothing else. Slowly, as if through water or a cloying mist, he left Lancelot, rolling to his side, action seeming to jerk Lancelot back with a start.

“Efficient,” Lancelot groaned, panting, every limb askew and not looking to be moving any time soon.

Arthur smiled and moving to brush a kiss over his mouth, liking the way his lips were swollen. “Yes.” He brushed a hand down Lancelot’s now sticky stomach, smiling softly at the shiver of muscles under his touch.

“It’s possible, and only just slightly, I should consider listening to you.” Lancelot sounded drowsy and sated and it warmed something again, something that was liking the way he could rest against Lancelot and fit so nicely there.

“Heaven be praised. Such a firm commitment.”

Lancelot growled again, rolling over him suddenly and biting at Arthur’s lips. “If you’re still able to spew your fumbling little quips, I hate to tell you, you’re just not doing something right.”

“Yes, I’m sure it pains you so to have at me.”

Lancelot grinned, shifting suggestively, skin sliding in a way that fully distracted Arthur from the issue at hand. “Well, this way’s all right.”

Arthur snorted. “Mmm, take much time to come to that conclusion, did you?”

“Oh, aren’t you the right funny one tonight?”

“I’m still making up for that dead bed joke of yours. I’ve got a ways to go, I think.”

“Arthur, so long as you want to rub up against me naked, I have no problems with that.”

Arthur allowed a devilish smile to come to his lips, briefly distracting himself with biting at Lancelot’s chin, a yowl for the effort. “And you shall live to regret that, I swear.”

Challenge thrown down…and accepted, if Lancelot’s smirk was something by which to judge. “We’ll see.”

***

Fin. Feedback is adored.


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